The Rift
by Cerulea
Summary: Set after "Slash Fiction", the boys deal with the fall-out after the truth about Amy.  Hurt and confusion lead to doubt about their relationship and Dean spirals.  Spoilers for season7!  Rated T for substance abuse.
1. Chapter 1

**Beware! Spoilers for season 7! **

**I was really distraught after "The Girl Next Door", I thought it was really disturbing. I wrote this after the episode "Slash Fiction" when Sam finds out the truth and the boys part ways. It's about the fall-out between them and Dean's guilt. This story goes a totally different direction than how the actual show did.**

**It's severely angsty. Take note, I said _severely_. Sometimes I just can't stop the angst - it takes over... But overall it's about the boys and the strain of their relationship as brothers.**

**It's got a couple shifts in POV.**

* * *

><p>Sam Winchester had done some pretty messed up crap in his day. He'd felt downright evil at times, weighted down with the guilt of knowing he made the wrong choice. That's how it was after he realized what he'd done with Ruby. He felt guilty and stupid and just... wrong. The weight of knowing he'd betrayed Dean, the one person who would always have his back, was almost debilitating.<p>

But Sam had paid his dues, in full. He was tricked, after all. But he'd made up for it nonetheless. By, you know, saving the whole friggin' world and sacrificing his sweet ass to the jackwagons known as Michael and Lucifer. He'd been a good brother in that last year with Dean, when they took on the world together. They'd mended fences and Sam did right by everyone he loved.

He apologized for being an idiot the year before. Which was, in his opinion, what happened. He knew it would take time for Dean to forgive him for it even so.

But idiocy was not to blame for what Dean had done. He couldn't say he was blinded by love, or a drug, or some deep-rooted brotherly conflict. No. Dean just did something... bad.

And maybe Sam was making excuses for himself, trying to think that his trespass was somehow not as bad, because he'd been tricked into it. Maybe he was full of it, because people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones at their maladjusted idiot brothers.

But as he stormed down the sunny streets of the middle of nowhere, with his backpack and duffel slung over his shoulder, containing every measly possession he had in this world, and his brother had driven away in the opposite direction, he just couldn't forgive and forget.

Dean lied to his face. After _everything_. Then went off, and killed a soccer mom.

Granted, she was a soccer mom with an appetite for douchebag brains, but still. Sam had told Dean that Amy was a good person. He explained that she was just trying to save her kid - he knew Dean would understand that, sympathize with her desperation. They'd have done worse to save each other. Sam begged him to let it go.

And he thought he had.

But Dean... that stubborn son of a bitch found that poor girl, and knifed her, and then came home to their motel room, joking about pizza and the Jersey Shore.

Sam clenched his jaw as he practically stomped down the road. Who the fuck _was_ this guy? Because he sure as Hell wasn't the Dean Sam jumped into the pit for. He was just some... some _ignorant_, lying, murdering jackass!

It frightened Sam, in truth. Killing Amy was... cold. Maybe inexcusably so. It was murder, straight out, and Sam's brain whirled with the terror that he might never forgive Dean. He was mortified at the thought that this anger and betrayal would never go away, that they'd never be the same, because he'd never be able to look at Dean the same.

This one act, made Sam feel like Dean wasn't the brother who'd all but raised him. Just some imbalanced, whiskey-swigging, pill-popping wash-up who'd lost every part of himself but the vainest, most easily identifiable traits - his classic car, his rock music, his guns. But that's not a person. That's just... decoration.

Sam stopped in his tracks, feeling the weight of his bags for the first time since he'd walked away from Dean.

Sam was angry, there was no contesting that. He felt betrayed to his core. But as of right now, he was suddenly also _concerned_ for his brother. How had he not seen until now that Dean was barely even a person anymore? He realized, with a cold weight in his stomach, that since they'd lost Cas, since Dean had lost Lisa and Ben, he'd been a shadow of a person. He held on to all of the most fake-able traits to make Sam think he was still Dean, but... looking back at the past year, Sam started to realize every little thing that was just sort of _off_ about Dean's behavior. Things he'd been too close to the situation to realize earlier than now.

And he did recognize it.

Dean was drowning.

Sam threw down his bags, kicking the dirt on the side of the road with insurmountable frustration.

He'd hated Dean minutes ago. He was ready to walk away and leave him to his own pathetic, lonely, wallowing. But now he was feeling bad for him?

"FUUUUCK!" Sam screamed out to the perfect blue sky, the sun shining back at him like a bad joke at his expense.

It was a beautiful day, and Sam Winchester was once again bizarrely confused. He'd come out here to curse Dean's name, and ended up wanting to help him.

_God__damn __it __all_.

Sam took a deep breath. _Pull __it __together._ He always liked the smell of the air on the open road in the middle of nowhere. It was easier to breath than that of a city, or even in the car. It cleared his mind. And Sam was, after all, a thinker.

Once he stopped and used his brain, he came to a decision in mere minutes.

He couldn't run out on Dean. Not again.

_Settled_.

Things could not continue to be the way they had been the past year.

_Absolute truth._

Sam was going to demand a change, and God help Dean if he didn't comply.

_Done and done._

With a new determination, Sam picked up his bags and turned on his heel, walking back the way he came.

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><p>Dean knew he really messed up this time. He knew, because he recognized that feeling all too well. He was intimately familiar with that throbbing ache in your gut that told you that you'd gone too far, done the wrong thing and couldn't take it back.<p>

_That__'__s __what __I __do_, he thought to himself, tipping the glass to his lips, _I __mess __everything __up_.

Sam knew it now for sure, and that was the worst part.

In the past he could always pretend like he had everything under control, like he knew exactly what he was doing, wrong or not. He was good at pretending to be justified. It was something he learned from taking care of Sam when he was little. Dean was sure, it was something you learned from parenting and caregiving.

The _Because __I __said __so -_ Infinitely powerful if employed correctly.

But this time... there was nothing to hide behind, no condescending phrase he could throw out to diffuse the whole situation. It was blatant, disgusting in how obvious it was to everyone including Dean himself, that he'd done the wrong thing.

_She __was __a __monster_, he tells himself, in vain. _She __would __have __killed __again. __I __know __that, __in __my __gut. __I _know _it..._

_But __you __don__'__t_, he challenged himself. _You __don__'__t __know __that __any__more __than __you __know __how __to __be __a __father. __Look __at __what __you __did __to __Ben. __Look __at __what __you __did __to __Sammy. __He__'__s __got __Hell __in __his __head, __and __no __matter __how __you __untangle __those __vines, __you __know __the __roots __all __come __back __to __you_.

"Shut up," the words air heavily in the dim and otherwise vacant motel room. He'd had one too many already - conservatively speaking. If the phrase were more specific, you might say Dean had had dozens too many. He couldn't stand or walk, or see really... all he could do was huddle in a drunken heap.

_All your fault._

Dean saw someone edging into his blurry vision from the corner of the room, so impossibly far away. Someone familiar, someone who showed up without making noise, someone who was always there, who mocked him, taunted him, without having said a word - the black-eyed version of himself that he'd met only once before, in a nightmare he couldn't escape.

_You __knifed __a __pretty __girl __as __easy __as __breathing. __But __I __always __knew __you __had __it __in __you, __Dean-o. __You__'__re __me. Y__ou__'__re __evil. __You__'__re __the __same __guy __that __used __to __rip __people __apart __for __kicks __in __Hell. __And __Sam __knows __it __now. __He __sees __how __tainted __you __really __are_.

He didn't have it in him to argue. He tipped the glass to his lips - empty. _Huh_. He didn't remember drinking it. No matter, the bottle was right there on the table. No need to be classy and use the cup, no one was coming to join him.

Dean popped the lid off of the pill bottle, his slow, heavy fingers making an ordeal of the now familiar movement, spilling the majority of the contents onto the floor.

_My __God, __you __are __pathetic_. Even when black, Dean's eyes sort of glinted with mischief. He ignored himself.

He squinted down at the hardwood, but with the alcohol in his blood the pills simply scattered and dissipated into the blur of faded brown, like tic tacs into alligator alley. He'd never see them again he figured. He briefly mourned their loss before unclenching the fist he'd tightened up as a forgotten natural reaction to the fear of dropping something important. He held his palm out in front of him, exploring it with his index finger to try and determine how many of his little white friends he'd rescued from the tumble into the swampy abyss that was the motel floor.

He usually only took one, as they were after all very "effective" as he'd told Sam. But his pain was bigger than usual today, so he could self-prescribe a bigger dose than usual.

Dean brought his lips to his palm, licking up the pills like a dog, making sure they were sticking to his tongue properly before pulling them into his mouth. He couldn't afford to drop them. He forgot to count how many.

He swallowed them down with the liquor. He hardly felt the burn anymore, but he liked to imagine that it hurt, and that it felt good.

* * *

><p>Bobby had gotten into the habit of calling one brother immediately after the other. Usually they picked up right away. They knew what side their bread was buttered on, they didn't dare screen him. So when he called one brother - usually Dean first - only to be sent to voicemail, he always called the other immediately after.<p>

If he couldn't reach either, he knew he should be worried.

That was the rule of thumb that had Bobby speeding down the freeway towards the boys' last known location, in a fit of nerves. He'd been calling Dean non-stop, but the idiot never picked up. He'd left a few voicemails now, both his volume and the number of cusses used increasing with each new message. And he'd done the same with Sam.

Sam had seen Bobby's calls, and knowingly ignored them, thinking Dean had put him up to fixing things between them. Sam needed to be left alone for a minute. He had to think.

Dean had seen the first couple of Bobby's calls, and ignored them in favor of wallowing in peace. After that he stopped realizing the calls were coming in because he'd stopped registering the sound of his phone due to his unprecedented and dangerous level of drunkenness.

Luckily, Bobby was an old dog capable of learning new tricks. He'd watched Dean track Sam through his cell phone once by calling the company and lying through his teeth to get them to turn on the GPS. All Bobby needed to do the same was the account number, and that, he had.

Seeing that Sam was on the move, and Dean stationary, he chose to go to Dean first, praying to God he would find him alive.

And he did.

Just barely.

* * *

><p>Sam hitched a ride back to the motel, feeling relieved when he spotted the Impala still in the parking lot. Hitching had become a lot more difficult now that he wasn't some skinny, floppy-haired college kid. He was a man and he was built. And people were pretty observant sometimes, in the sense that they could tell that he'd been through some shit, and was in his own way (nice guy or not) dangerous. If not for his size alone.<p>

It had been a much longer trek than he'd anticipated and he was antsy to have it out with Dean. They needed a good blow-out. A screaming, crying, lifetime movie kind of fight where they finally _talked_ and laid everything out on the table.

He'd planned out exactly what he was going to say to him. Guessed what Dean's reaction would be when he showed up. He had a whole speech prepared.

He didn't get to use it.

When Sam went to the motel door, he was immediately put on edge when he found it was unlocked. Dean always locked the door. It was one of Dad's rules. One that they still, to this day, always followed.

He pulled his gun from his jeans, pushing the door open slowly. The sliver of light from the outside world spilled over the room, showing the dust in the stuffy air. Sam barely stepped in when his heart lurched at the sight of Dean sprawled on the floor, puddle of blood beside him.

He ran to his brother's side, kneeling beside him, checking his pulse.

He was alive. That ever-present thump was barely there in Dean's throat, it was weak and uneven as far as Sam could tell. But, he was alive.

He was...gray. His lips, nearly white...almost blue.

Sam raised his gun, scanning the room quickly with his eyes - he'd be no good to his brother if he too got caught off-guard by whatever attacked Dean.

But in Sam's observation, he took in the full scene of the room, and suddenly he let his gun sag.

No signs of monsters, but two empty whisky bottles, and an utterly destroyed mini-bar.

Little white pills scattered all over the floor around Dean's limp, yet rigid body.

The little pool of blood was leaking out from Dean's hand, settling around the shattered shards of a rock glass.

Sam's stomach twisted. Dean had done this to himself? It took a second for his brain to kick back in. He took his brother's pulse again, flattening both of his palms to Dean's neck - he was clammy cold. Sam's heart skipped a beat. He held his hand in front of Dean's mouth - his breath was shaky and too shallow.

"Dean?" he called out to him loudly, trying to wake him. "Dean-" Sam heard a creak behind him and swung around brandishing his almost-forgotten gun.

Bobby stood in the doorway, hands raised.

"Just me," he said, the sentiment dying on his lips as the situation in front of him processed. He ran to Dean's other side, crouching down with Sam.

"What got 'im?"

"He did," Sam said tightly, "whisky... and whatever the Hell these are." Sam snatched a pill of the floor examining it between his fingers. Bobby pulled Sam's hand over to his own face so he could take a look.

Sam looked at him hopefully, but Bobby shook his head. "I don't know what that is." Bobby looked down at Dean, feeling older suddenly than he had ever in his life. The boy's freckles stood out against his skin, so pale now, and Bobby thought _He __looks __so __young... __he__'__s __just __a __baby..._ He felt a twinge of paternal guilt, and love. When your a parent, your child is always your baby, even if their a pistol packing thirty year old man. And Bobby may not have been blood, but he was sure as Hell the closest thing the boys'd had to a father in maybe their whole lives. Bobby snapped out of it when he felt Sam shaking Dean, almost violently, the panic to wake him up rising like a squall. "He's barely breathing," Bobby stated, "go, get behind him."

Sam knelt at Dean's head and awaited further instruction.

"Lean 'im up against you, let his head tip back on your shoulder."

Sam hefted his boneless big brother up until he was settled between his knees, his back against Sam's chest and his head bobbed backward, resting on his shoulder. The lifelessness of him, how Sam could pull him around like a doll, it turned his stomach.

"Keep your fingers on his pulse Sam," Bobby got up from the floor, hurrying toward Dean's duffel on the other side of the room. "You holler if it stops!"

Bobby rummaged hastily through the bag gathering things he needed. Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from his ghostly brother, "Damn it Dean..." he whispered.

Bobby knelt in front of them, medical supplies strewn at his knees, and took Dean's gashed hand in his own. He was bleeding quickly, still, after who knew how long. Sam guessed it was because of the alcohol thinning his blood. Bobby cleaned and wrapped the wound, hoping it would stem the flow. It was the least of Dean's problems but at least it was something Bobby could actually do to help.

He only had a moment to look the elder Winchester over before Sam snapped to attention.

"Dean," he called to the brother that couldn't hear him.

"What is it?"

"I can't feel a pulse," Sam's eyes were wide as he stared at Bobby, "Bobby his heart stopped-"

"Lay him down," Bobby kept his voice calm.

Sam tried to be gentle but he was panicked, his hands were shaking. Bobby held his hand in front of Dean's mouth, feeling he wasn't breathing and motioned for Sam to start chest compressions - Sam thought he might vomit. He started compressions, his stomach twisting painfully as he felt the haunting give of his brother's limp body. He counted each compression out loud to keep himself sane. And then Bobby breathed for Dean. Sam started again, staring at Dean, willing him to spring back to life... Bobby kept his fingers on Dean's pulse point. It only took one more round for Sam to crack one of Dean's ribs, and Bobby to hold up a hand suddenly, stopping him. He felt Dean's neck carefully for a long moment, before turning to Sam with relief, "Got it..."

A pulse. Thank God.

Suddenly Dean's body wretched, but not enough - it wanted him to vomit, it wanted to expel all the toxic drink from his system. But Dean had shut down his body's natural responses, and even as the vomit bubbled up from his throat, he made no attempt to get rid of it. He laid flat on his back, unconscious.

"Turn 'im," Bobby shouted, grabbing at Dean's far shoulder to pull him onto his side. Sam scrambled off of Dean to help.

Dean's body wretched without his knowledge, doing its best to undo what he had done. Sam was both amazed and terrified by the sheer volume of what was leaving Dean's body - so much. Too much. Pooling all over the floor beside him.

It was several long minutes of silence as the alcohol and God knows what else spilled out of him. Then, finally, he coughed.

Dean coughed as if he was drowning, and made the awful noises of trying to stop the inevitable continuing up-chuck. He struggled for air, and he still didn't respond to Bobby and Sam when they called his name At least, the two thanked God, he was awake (if you could call it that) and some of the color came back to his face.

Sam and Bobby must have decided simultaneously to move him, because they were both up and grabbing him beneath the arms, dragging him towards the bathroom before they knew it.

They dragged him to the toilet, holding him up over it - Bobby putting up the seat as an afterthought or a reflex. Dean's eyes still hadn't opened, but his brow was furrowed and his hands were gripping tight - one to Sam the other to the toilet. It was a good sign.

But despite Dean's traitorous body's heaving, he fought to keep it in. He just wouldn't let himself be sick.

"Come on boy, let it out," Bobby soothed, hand rubbing Dean's back. Dean dropped his head to the toilet, his forehead thunking against the ceramic. He shook his head No.

"Dean you have to throw up," Sam demanded. Dean only shook his head again. "You need to get it out, you have to throw it up."

But Dean could not be moved, he was stubborn and drunk and incoherent and everything hurt and he simply did not want to vomit anymore.

Sam and Bobby's eyes met and Bobby shook his head, knowing that if Dean didn't get it out of his system he'd only get worse.

That was it. Sam had it. If Dean wouldn't take care of himself, Sam would do it for him.

He picked up Dean's head, gripping him tightly along the jaw, forcing his mouth open even as Dean's heavy arms, clumsy and strengthless, tried to push him away.

True love is sticking your fingers down your brother's throat to make him vomit whisky and bile. That's dedication. _That__'__s __what __family __does_, Dean might say jokingly, but still serious, in that way he does. Sam could hear Dean's voice in his head. His eyes felt hot all of a sudden.

Dean vomited until there was nothing left but dry heaves - his face was red, his eyes tearing, he was covered in his own blood, bile and piss and still absolutely intoxicated. _But_, Bobby thought with a heavy sigh, feeling Dean's pulse grow stronger_, __he__'__s __gonna __live_. He started running the shower, warm but not hot. Dean was still a little hypothermic, and frankly, Bobby couldn't stand seeing him in this state.

Sam didn't make eye contact with Bobby as he hauled his brother into the tub with all of his clothes on, soaking them both. After sitting Dean down in the middle of the tub, Sam stood for a moment, taking in the sight of him. Dean was all but falling back asleep under the warm spray, which was flattening his hair to his face and slowly soaking through his soiled clothes. This was how close Sam had come to losing his brother, and it had nothing to do with Hunting. This was all about Dean, the person, not the situation he was in. He thought for a long moment before making up his mind and sitting down in the end of the tub with him.

He hoped with the steady shower stream, it would be less obvious to Bobby, or more acceptable somehow, that he was crying.

Bobby pulled the lid on the toilet down and collapsed heavily onto it with a sigh. "You'll have to shake him awake every couple minutes."

Sam nodded.

Bobby watched the younger man, seeing the weight of the bad memory tonight would always be settle into him. He reached over and patted Sam on the arm as if to say that everything would be ok.

After a long quiet time in the bathroom watching Dean be unconscious, Bobby stood creakily and announced there were things they would need. Sam didn't have the strength to bother asking what those things were. "You gonna be alright here?"

Sam nodded, and Bobby left.

Dean was silent a little longer, before he started shifting slightly and grunting.

"You ok?" Sam asked loudly enough to break through the haze of drunkenness between himself and Dean's brain.

Dean groaned shortly, then his brown furrowed. "I wann my fuggin' negglace..." he demanded.

"You want your necklace?" Sam asked, not sure he heard him right.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, eyes closing sleepily.

"You should stay awake," Sam offered, almost too tired to keep his eyes open himself.

Dean _Mmm_'d with displeasure at the idea. Suddenly he leaned forward, swaying with the sudden movement. Dean scrambled to get over Sam and Sam, desperate to help but having no idea what Dean was doing, was at least able to steady his way. Dean lifted the toilet lid and leaned over the bowl from still half-inside the tub. He heaved, and Sam was repulsed that there was still something to come up.

Dean coughed uncontrollably, his voice getting hoarse and his face turning dark red. Sam patted him on the back, and tried to ask if he was ok, but Dean couldn't answer. When he finally caught his breath, he rested his head in the crook of his arm, resting on the toilet. "Why are you doing this Sammy?"

"You're my brother." As an afterthought he added, "Don't call me Sammy."

"You should have let me just die."

If this was going to turn into some self-pitying diatribe about how the world would be better without Dean and _blah blah blah_ then Sam did not have the patience.

"I can't do that and you know it."

"But you wish you could," Dean said as he struggled to sit back. Sam was stung by the statement but he helped Dean sit back without toppling over, though Dean didn't even feel it. "You wish you could let me die, because that's what I deserve." He said it with a tone of defiance, a look of certainty on his face. But it's hard to take someone seriously, despite their own certainty, if their words come out drawled together in a drunken slur.

Sam didn't say anything.

"I'm evil. I'm just like yellow-eyes."

Sam's eyes shot to Dean, observing him closely. It was a heavy thing to say, strong words, comparing himself to the thing that had killed their mother, that murdered the love of Sam's life. Dean was leaned back against the tile, staring out, looking oddly calm and resolved about this statement.

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

Dean squinted at Sam as if he was irritated and confused by Sam not understanding his self-assessment. "I killed that little boy's mom," he stated it obviously, like Sam should have put that together. Sam understood the parallel now. But even in his angriest moment, he couldn't have agreed. Nonetheless, Sam didn't have any words for his brother at that moment, so they slipped back into silence again.

After awhile, Dean became agitated by the continuous spray of the shower, as if perplexed by why it didn't stop. He wanted out, and Sam helped him do so without breaking both the bones in his body and the Motel room's bathroom fixtures. He was there to steady him and to essentially hold him upright as Dean practically lost consciousness while they were walking.

When they entered the other room again Sam was thankful to see that Bobby had already cleaned up the earlier mess. Further proof that he was like a father - only a parent would have the stomach to deal with something like that just so his kid didn't have to.

Sam deposited Dean on the bed, and Dean lolled to the side, as if he had no bones left in his body. Sam peeled off Dean's wet clothes, finding that he was met with little resistance mostly because Dean had no idea what was going on around him. He redressed him in dry clothes, finding that the putting clothes _on_ went a lot slower and was quite an ordeal. Sam sighed heavily once the task was done. His brother's face looked pained. Sam hefted him up so that they were both standing.

"Where're we goin'?" Dean asked quietly.

"Bed," Sam responded. The other bed's sheets were now soaked from Dean's wet clothes, so he was leading Dean to the other bed, hoping to get him into it and sleeping before Sam himself passed out.

But Dean immediately started to resist. It was feeble, but it still made him difficult to handle. "No, no..." he chanted trying to extract himself from Sam's hold.

"Dean, what-"

"I'm not going to bed."

"Yes, you are. Come on-"

"No!" he yelled and shoved himself away from Sam. Unfortunately his legs buckled under himself once Sam was no longer there to hold him up. And when he felt Sam coming near again to pull him off the floor, he scrambled away from him. Dean backed away until he hit the wall and the flattened against it like it would anchor him to the floor somehow.

"Dean, please, you have to get in bed."

"No!" he yelled again, like a child. "I'm not sleeping!" Sam watched his brother, baffled when tears crept up on him. Dean tried never to cry, especially not in front of Sam. Even now he had the presence of mind to hide his face in his arms, pulling his legs up in front of him.

Exhausted, Sam slid down the wall to sit behind him, rubbing his hand over Dean's back.

"Sam," Dean's voice was scared, little a little child.

"Yeah?"

Dean's face screwed up with the effort not to cry. "I killed her Sammy," but the levee broke, and Dean couldn't hold it in.

Sam had nothing to say. Part of him wanted to shout, _Yeah, __you __fucking __did_ and rub it in because he was still angry. And part of him wanted to tell him _It__'__s __ok, __shh, __you __did __what __you __had __to_ and save him the pain. But being equally caught between the two, all he could think to do was rub his hand across his brother's shoulder blades.

Feeling that comfort, but knowing Sam was still upset, Dean folded up into himself. He seemed to Sam, to be very small indeed at that moment. Like he really was just a kid. And he tried to hide it, but his body shook with the sobs that he finally let out. "I shouldn't've... I'm sorry," Sam heard his muffled voice from between his knees. "I don't wanna go to sleep."

Sam wanted to say _I know_. But instead, seeing the obvious window of opportunity here with Dean being just drunk enough to maybe tell him the truth, he asked what he'd been wanting to for years. "Why can't you sleep?"

"Because I won't get any rest anyway."

Sam waited silently, hoping he could pressure Dean into saying more. His stare and silence were very effective. Dean looked down at his hands shyly and explained, "Nightmares."

"About?"

"I see her..." he confessed. "I can't stop seeing her face - when I did it. And Cas, sinking into the water. The way he looked at me before, when he begged me to trust him. All the times he begged for me to...to listen. He did the wrong thing, but I betrayed him. And not because of the Leviathan thing. I've been betraying him since I met him - always telling him what to do, asking for more, but never giving him the time of day. I used him. And then I let him get swallowed up. And then, I killed that woman. And it's like, as soon as I close my eyes, they're there. Showing me what I've done. Like they wanna know why... Only, I don't know. I just don't know."

Sam sat quietly absorbing this information. He couldn't help but pity his brother, for what he'd done to himself.

"I don't know if I said it already," Dean started nervously, "but ... I'm sorry I lied to you." He looked at Sam straight for the first time all night, "Sincerely."

Sam knows by Dean's face that it's the truth. He nods, as good an acceptance as he's willing to give at the moment, but still, it's something.

Dean nods back, knowing where he stands - a tentative almost-forgiveness. He sighs deeply and leans his head back against the wall, letting his legs unbend to rest on the cool floor. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. Just to rest them.

It's barely minutes before Sam can tell Dean's drifted to sleep. He was well enough now Sam didn't have to worry he'd never wake up. And his poor body had been through Hell, it needed rest. As did Dean's mind. Sam watched Dean asleep upright, his chest rising and falling slowly - he almost looked peaceful. Despite himself, Sam hoped he was. God help him, he couldn't stop loving his brother, no matter how screwed up he was, no matter how wrong he did.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, his muscles feeling stiff, like an old man's. He stood over Dean, seeing him not as some jackass he wanted to pummel, but as the brother who'd given him the last can of spaghetti o's when they'd run out of food after Dad got held up a day, leaving them alone. He saw how Dean had been so desperate once for them to be a happy family. He looked at his brother's too-pale face and saw the man that had sold his soul for him, and done all the little things too - didn't tell dad when he'd broken the rearview mirror, tossed him a beer after a hard day, threw paper airplanes at him for an hour straight just to get him to crack a smile when he was determined to be sour.

_You can't cut him down to one mistake_. Sam reasoned with himself. _There's a lifetime of Dean here, not just one bad moment_.

Sam slipped one arm under Dean's knees and the other behind his shoulders, lifting him as carefully as he could so as not to disturb his hard to come by rest. Lifting his grown brother into his arms without jolting him was a true challenge, but when Dean's head shifted to the side, resting on Sam's shoulder, Sam guessed he was doing alright and hadn't woken him. He carried him to the bed and laid him down carefully, tucking him in.

In a way, Sam felt like he finally had the chance to take care of Dean, the way he'd done for Sam all their childhood.

Sam collapsed on the second bed, not being able to muster the strength to move again once he was horizontal. He felt sleep pulling him under, making his eyes heavy, even as he realized he still had his damp clothes and shoes on. But he didn't care. He didn't resist.

He hoped Dean would sleep well and long.


	2. Resolution

**Shorter chapter, I promise.**

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><p>Sam woke early in the morning. His need for rest had been desperate after last night's trials and he woke up to find that the room was still half lit from the lights he didn't bother to turn out last night, and now also from the breaking dawn outside. He sat up stiffly, immediately looking over at his brother. Dean was breathing softly and evenly into his pillow. Sam got up and headed to the bathroom. He needed to start this day right, and the first order of business was washing away yesterday. He took a hot shower, brushed his teeth mechanically, cleaned the bathroom, as his mind went over what he intended to say to his brother. He got dressed, picked up after their messiness, and waited. He made coffee, and waited.<p>

He tried to keep his mind on what he was going to say to Dean when he woke up, instead of the horror of last night. But it was nearly impossible - the images would haunt him forever. And the sound of Dean's voice when he was going on about how he never should have done it, he's so sorry, he killed a little boy's mother and he's just like yellow-eyes - an evil monster, the source of another little motherless boy's nightmares... the tone of his voice was haunting too.

Sam wanted to feel vindicated by his brother's obvious distress, as though it proved the point that Sam was right. But there was no satisfaction in it. He only wished he could take it back _for_ Dean. What he'd done ... it was killing him.

With any luck, that would all end today.

Dean rolled over, breathing deeply. Sam saw him wince and fold in on himself as consciousness struck him.

This would be a thousand times worse than the mother of all hangovers - Dean had literally _died_ yesterday, and now he was gonna feel the repercussions of that. It would not be pretty. In reality, he should be hospitalized. But Dean wouldn't agree to that in a thousand years. Sam wasn't sure what he should do, maybe force him to go? He decided to play it by ear.

He walked over to the bed putting a hand on Dean's arm to wake him fully. Dean's eyes cracked open dryly, and Sam whispered, "Coffee?" It didn't escape him that he was babying Dean. He was so rarely allowed to do so, that he was fascinated by the idea of it. Dean had always taken care of Sam when he was sick, and then barreled through his own illnesses and injuries, pretending he was fine, as if to save Sam the worry. It felt good for Dean to _have_ to rely on him for once, however twisted that was.

Dean seemed to think about the prospect of coffee for a long moment before nodding pathetically. Words would have to wait. His throat was raw, his head felt like it was full of marbles and nails, his chest was bruised, and he was pretty sure he had a broken rib. He struggled to sit up slowly as Sam fixed him a coffee. Dean was leaning his head into his hands when Sam offered the mug.

"Thanks," Dean offered, but it was low and rough and barely came out.

Sam nodded. After a long moment of contemplating the action, Sam sat down on his own bed, facing Dean, watching him closely.

"You don't have to stare at me Sam, I'm not gonna freak out," Dean croaked out sharply.

Sam wanted to bite back, but held his tongue. He had to be the level head here.

Dean winced again as he tried to breathe deeply, and made an irritated face shoving the sheets out of the way and pulling up his t-shirt to reveal the purpling bruise over the broken rib. He pressed two fingers to the area experimentally, feeling how tender it was and hissed at the sharp pain he was rewarded with.

"You were dead," Sam said, his voice frighteningly flat, empty.

Dean's eyes shot up to his.

"We had to do CPR... That's my fault," he said, motioning shortly towards Dean's injury. "I was trying to get you to breathe."

His little brother's tone of voice made Dean feel awash with guilt. How could he put his brother through something like that? He remembered the feeling of utter terror when Sam had his fist seizure in the Panic room - how he couldn't help him, how sharply Sammy's mortality came into focus. It was awful to be faced with such a thing. And here he'd done it to his little brother with no thought to how it would hurt him. He regretted it. But what can you say in such a situation? _Thanks? Sorry?_ Nothing would be enough.

He stared into his coffee cup, the silence between them nearly choking him up. "Sam, I..." but there was nothing he could say.

After the awkward quiet following Dean's failure to communicate, Sam asked, "Were you trying to?" He didn't have to say _kill yourself_. Dean knew what he meant.

He answered quickly, reactionary, "No." But then he thought about how Sam could see through him, about how he owed him honesty in the very least and he amended, "I don't think so ... I - I don't know."

He saw Sam's jaw tighten.

"I didn't mean for... I feel like an asshole, man. I know what I put you through-"

"No. You don't."

Sam's eyes were hard and Dean felt like their stare would crack him open. "You're right," he tried to concede but Sam cut him off again.

"You were blue."

Dean's eyes shot to his, shocked.

"You stopped breathing. Your heart stopped. You were _cold_."

Dean paused a moment to take in the weight of his brother's observations. "I'm so sorry Sam."

"What if I hadn't come back? What if I'd been a half an hour later? I'd be burying you. Just like Dad just like Jess just like everyone. I'd have to be the one that found you on the floor in your own blood and vomit and tried to save you and failed. I'd have to feel like it was my fault because I walked away from you-"

"Sam, it's not-"

"No! Shut up!" He was standing now, towering and healthy and Dean was no match for it. He would have to just take it. "You are a selfish dick! You were gonna go ahead and die and feel like the victim - but it's _me_ who got hurt! It's _me_ who got betrayed! And now I can't even be mad at you because you're sitting there looking like someone ripped _your_ soul out and shoved it back in broken! How could you just -" he cut himself off, feeling that he was spinning out of control. He was railing, and his brother's eyes were glassy. Dean knew what he'd done. There was no sense in rubbing it in now. Sam took a deep breath, rubbing his hand over his face. He sat down heavily on his bed. And tried again, his voice softer, "I know you're sorry."

Dean said nothing. It looked like he might be crying, but he did a good job of hiding it.

"But sorry isn't gonna make me forget last night. I have to live with that crap now, ok? And I can't even have the peace of mind of knowing it won't happen again."

Dean looked at him finally.

"You have been on the edge since Hell. And nothing's gotten easier since then. So now there's even more stuff to weigh on us. It's more than enough to scramble our brains - the difference is that I seem to be the only one who knows that. Taking a minute to assess you level of emotional disturbance doesn't make you weak, Dean. And frankly, you're long overdue."

Dean looked away again.

"I'm not saying I want to be your therapist, ok. I'm just saying...well, what I've been saying for years. You need to talk to someone. You need help working through this crap."

There was heavy silence.

Sam's voice was hard, "Do you or do you not agree?"

Everything in Dean wanted to say _No_. He's strong. He doesn't need help... But in his current condition, it seemed futile. He nodded _Yes_, not meeting Sam's eyes.

Relieved and actually surprised, Sam took a breath.

Just then Bobby came in, seeing Dean sober and upright for the first time and stopping cold in his tracks at the sight of it. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, sheets wrapped around him, looking like death warmed-over. He was still too pale, dark circles under his eyes. He looked similar to the way he had when he was supposed to die of heart failure all those years ago. His arms were folded instinctively about his abdomen, as if trying to cradle his fractured rib. From the look on his face, he hadn't even remembered Bobby was there and was now mortified by the fact. His embarrassment was only eclipsed by the utter shame of falling to pieces in front of the patriarch of their family. They'd already had this fight once before - this _I __won__'__t __kill __me, __if __you __don__'__t __kill __you_ arrangement they'd so desperately hammered out in hopes of staving off each other's likely self-inflicted deaths.

Bobby shook his head and pulled out his spoils - an IV bag, some pills, gauze and other medical supplies.

"Where'd you get that?" Sam eyes the IV bag curiously.

"Passed a vet hospital on my way here."

"You stole it?"

"You bet your lima beans. Actually, I'm surprised how easy it was."

"What is it?" Dean squinted at Bobby through one barely-cracked eyelid.

"It's gonna help bring you back from the dead so shut up and take it."

Dean slouched in feigned irritation, but Sam could see plain as day it was just a cover for his embarrassment.

Bobby pulled the chair up in front of Dean, handing him the bag, "Hold this up here a minute," he demanded roughly. Dean did so with no snarky comments whatsoever in return. He kept his eyes to the floor. Sensing his humiliation and utter sadness, Bobby softened his tone. He didn't need to add bruises to an ego that was already so mangled that he'd nearly killed himself mere hours ago. "Give me your arm," Dean did so mechanically, a strange pull at his heart when he felt how gentle Bobby was being with him. John would have been harder on him, now more than ever. He'd want Dean to toughen-up. Dean swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

Bobby saw it. So did Sam.

"If only it could cure the stupid," Bobby joked, taping down the needle Dean didn't even feel go in. Bobby got up from the chair, looking over this broken kid, and after faltering for a moment, let his hand fall to the top of Dean's head.

Dean's jaw clenched - it was a desperate attempt to keep himself together.

A heavy and severely uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and Sam recognized the opportunity.

"Alright," Sam started, as if something official were about to happen. At his tone, both Dean and Bobby, who was now retreating to the mini-fridge, looked up at him expectantly. Sam looked at Bobby then jerked his head toward the other bed. "Sit down."

Bobby rolled his eyes, but moved toward the bed just the same - Sam's tone was heavy. "Yes sir," he jibed.

"Ok look," Sam started, his voice stern and his eyes hard, "this crap stops today."

Dean and Bobby glanced at each other warily.

Sam continued, "As of right now I'm laying down a new law - Team Free Will is now officially a dry unit. As of this minute, there is no more getting shitfaced, no more popping pills. We are not gonna drink our way through what possibly little life we've got left. We're gonna deal with our personal shit the same way we deal with everything else for once in our lives - head on. We're not gonna try and drink it away. And we are under no circumstances whatsoever going to lie to each other. This is how it's gotta be or that's it. We're done. And I'm not talking _call __you __in __three __days __after __I__'__ve __cooled __off_ kind of done. I'm talking _I__'__m __at __the __end __of __my __rope __and __I __won__'__t __stand __another __godforsaken __minute __of __watching __you __kill __yourself_ kind of done. We're gonna get our act together and we're gonna do it right. So we are giving up the binge drinking and the god knows what else. And this is the final word."

Silence had fallen over them once again. Sam was done speaking, but he was still hardcore in Alpha mode.

Dean could barely meet his eyes, but Sam saw his expression and knew he was worried about losing his crutch. And equally worried about losing his brother. He seemed trapped between the two. But when Sam caught Dean in his stare, Dean took a deep breath and nodded.

Bobby cleared his throat, "What do you mean 'we?'".

Sam learned from his father the importance of respecting your elders. But Bobby needed to know he was serious. No more Mister Nice Guy, "You really want to slur your way through calling me _son_?"

Bobby seemed put to shame by the statement. But before he could rebut, Sam cut him off, "We almost watched him die last night. He almost _drank __himself __to __death_," he repeats, trying to make the sentiment sink in. Dean looked away. A flash of pain, almost imperceptible, like a wince ran across Bobby's face at the words. Sam could see that he was getting to him and kept on, "And your first instinct when it blows over is the head to the mini-bar."

Bobby looked as if the fact hadn't even dawned on him until Sam said it out loud.

"If we actually live to see old age and we're gonna be crazy, scarred-up old nutjobs then fine. They can put me away in the nuthouse in a rubber room right next to yours. But one thing I'm not going to be is an old drunk."

He turns and looks full-force at his brother, who gets caught in his stare like a deer caught in the headlights and is unable to look away.

"I will not go on one more hunt where I have to be worried about you being drunk by the time we get there. No more flasks. No more pity shots. No more, _Mind your business Sam_. And you better see I'm serious and believe me when I say... I'm not having this conversation again."

He holds Dean's eyes in his own until he feels Dean crack. He nods shakily, agreeing to Sam's terms. _God, __sometimes __he __sounds __like __Dad..._ Dean wonders at their similarity in tone.

Sam turns to Bobby, giving him to same no monkey-business stare.

"Ok kid," he concedes lightly. "Dry as the Sahara."

Sam breathes his first real breath in two days. A tentative solution reached to what's been bothering him down to his core. He shrugs out of his Strong-Sam stance and melts back down to Regular-Sam before their eyes.

"Maybe not _that_ dry..." he jokes.

Dean and Bobby both smile with him. It breaks some of the tension at least.

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><p>Breakfast is a quiet affair, all three men having exhausted their minds in thinking about their current situation, thinking about last night - about all the nights that led up to last night. Bobby had brought back food, and now they sat around the motel room's little table together, their minds miles away.<p>

Dean laughed internally at the thought that this was probably the first time the three had sat down for a proper meal together. It was ironic, he thought. Even now, as he snatched clandestine glances at his brother and Bobby, chewing away, deep in thought, he was almost glad to find himself here despite the almost unintelligible pain in his body. He could barely sit upright, let alone eat. But he did a good job of keeping his mouth shut about it. He didn't want to seem ungrateful (for the food or his life), but his body simply wouldn't allow him to chew right now, or swallow, and the thought of having to lift his arm to pick up the fork... No way.

At some point Bobby mentioned that they'd better high-tail it, due to the ruckus they'd made last night. Sam doubted that anyone in a place like this would have said anything, but he was glad to hear the sentiment out loud. He couldn't stand to be in that room any longer than strictly necessary, and he was almost comforted by the notion that maybe Bobby couldn't either. They started packing up, Dean moving all too slowly, finding it hard to keep his concentration when he was using all of his brain power to remain standing and simultaneously make it look like it wasn't hurting him to do so.

Sam and Bobby could tell, of course. Sam silently started helping Dean, getting his things from the bathroom and packing them up - picking up a few haphazardly tossed aside shirts and stuffing them in his duffel. He even grabbed the duffel for him, seeing Dean's struggle to pick it up off the bed.

It was like all of his muscles were shredded and his bones made out of jelly. Dean couldn't muster an ounce of strength. If it wasn't so embarrassing he'd have been solely horrified. His strength had never left him so thoroughly when he needed, not ever before in his life. Not like this. Now, he couldn't even lift his own duffel bag. He couldn't even bend over to pick up a t-shirt without nearly blacking out. He was scared by what he'd done to himself.

And he was relieved when Sam grabbed his keys off the table.

"Ready?" Sam asked, with an easy tone, like it was any other day. Dean was thankful for that.

Dean looked around this room that had only a day ago been the darkest place in his world, where he'd given up on himself, on everything and poisoned his body in slow motion. Now, with the door held open, sunlight shining in past Sam's enormous frame, it seemed unrecognizable. Just a normal room, with faded hardwood floors and dusty furniture. It wasn't so scary now, but still Dean couldn't wait to leave it behind.

He nodded to his brother, and Sam turned to leave. But all of a sudden Dean couldn't let him, "Sam...?"

He turned back, concerned expression lining his brow, "Yeah?"

Dean looked down at his shoes, trying to decide how he could say what he wanted to say - every _Sorry_ and _I owe you_ and _You were right_ muddling together in his mind. He looked at Sam, who was staring back at him curiously, waiting, willing Dean to say what he needed to. Dean figured he should get it out as simply and honestly as he could.

"Thanks for coming back."

Sam was unreadable in that moment, silent as the honesty of the statement registered. He nodded at Dean, once again at a loss for words. He jerked his head toward the parking lot, "C'mon," and gave his brother an almost-smile before stepping out.

Dean smiled back.

He'd make it up to him, he promised himself. He'd make it up to Sam and Bobby both. Maybe one day even be able to _talk_ through it, muster a real, spoken apology.

Dean laughed a little, _Don__'__t __get __ahead __of __yourself __Winchester_.

He slouched on his jacket despite the aching of his joints, and followed Sam outside into the sunlight.


End file.
